New Beginning
by Lennox13
Summary: AU. What if Simon stumbled upon the Shadowworld first? How would this change the story? Simon-centric, angsty.
1. Chapter 1: Death

**Leave a review if you'd like to offer advice, criticism, corrections, or merely if you like it. Any support is appreciated. **

**Thank you for reading, fellow TMI fans. I hope you enjoy this explorative AU with me. **

**Buckle up.**

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DEATH

Simon Lewis didn't mean to die.

It was a classic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It was late – later than usual – and the only reason why he was out, visiting the small local grocery around the corner, was because his sister, Rebecca, needed chocolate. And feminine hygiene products. It was just his bad luck that that night, two men also came in, looking for cigarettes and gum.

The two men were drunk and looked they had just rolled out of a ditch. They had guns. Apparently they didn't just want cigarettes and gum.

One idiot tried to play the hero. He tried to interfere when the two men waved their weapons in the face of the terrified college student behind the till. The guns shifted to the man and something in their eyes glinted. They weren't just there for cigarettes, gum and all the cash in the till. No, they wanted blood.

Simon only had a second to take it all in. He stood two steps from the would-be hero and his eyes latched onto the keyring dangling at the man's waist. Two small girls with pigtails and colourful palms, grinned up at him.

He didn't think.

His body just moved.

He heard the shots but didn't feel anything until his body hit the cold floor. His brain vaguely cringed at the thought of touching the dirty tiles, but he was more concerned with the blood bubbling up his throat. Turning his head to the side helped slightly but he could already feel his heart slowing… slowing… slowing.

The doorbell jingled as someone left. Or entered. Simon didn't know nor did he care. He was feeling oddly weightless. He tried to care about the fact that he was dying. His mom and sister and Clary would be sad. He hoped they would be proud. He hoped.

A brown-black blob - or was it black-brown? - entered his vision, blocking his view of an ever-growing pool of blood.

He thought somebody was trying to ask him something, or tell him something, but his ears weren't working right, and neither was his brain. He tried to nod or shake his head or tell whoever it was to go away since he'd like to die in peace, thanks. But he merely flailed somewhat. It didn't hurt.

A strong hand gripped the back of his neck, turning his head back. Something warm pressed against his mouth and something even hotter pressed against his throat. With a somewhat lucid start, he realised how cold he was. Blood started choking him again, and he tried to swallow, but it burned, so he stopped. The warmth at his neck was also burning and he tried to pull away. He'd much rather feel nothing. The hand released him, and his head flopped back to the side. It was so… beautiful. Achingly red. The glistening puddle of his own blood. _Puddle, bubble_ \- heh, funny words.

Simon's heartbeat thumped.

And thumped.

And stopped.


	2. Chapter 2: Destiny

**If you're reading this, you are awesome. Not because you're reading my fic, of course, but because you're a TMI fan. You have excellent taste, my friend.**

**Recommended other authors: Sarah J Maas, Ilona Andrews, Patricia Briggs, Brandon Sanderson, Laini Taylor and Leigh Bardugo.**

**Any comments are appreciated and will be taken to heart. Also, if you tack on a book recommendation, I will like you even more.**

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DESTINY

Raphael believed in fate.

After all of the death he had experienced, inflicted even, and all of the bad and downright evil things he'd seen, Raphael still believed in fate. Destiny.

And years and years later, he would swear that that was the only reason why he chose to walk down that specific street, at that specific time, on that specific night.

Raphael heard the gunshots and paused with mild interests. Admittedly, he was jaded and old, but violence would always catch his attention. He watched as about 50 metres ahead, the door of a shop opened, and two men ran out.

The men didn't even see him as he darted forward, catching the door before it could fully swing shut. The men smelled of alcohol, metal and adrenaline, but what piqued his interest more, was the heady scent of blood permeating the air. Raphael's pupils dilated, desire igniting, and despite himself, he entered the store, allowing the door to jingle-jangle shut behind him.

Blood wasn't an unusual scent in his world, but there was something different about this. It was New York, after all, and unless you were one of those sick vampires who hunted children, blood smelled of drugs, alcohol, grease or sex - pick your vice. But blood, blood this sweet, blood this pure, was nearly unheard of unless it came from a child.

That was why he was so surprised when, rounding a stack of magazines and gum, he saw a lanky teenager with curly brown hair lying in a pool of blood, clutching a bag of pads in one fist and a bar of Turkish delight chocolate in the other.

The life was visibly fading from the boy. Blood bubbled from his lips. A stuttering breath whistled through a punctured lung.

Raphael decided.

It was a rash decision and very unlike the normally stoic vampire, but he locked eyes with the quivering girl behind the till, who instantly stilled, enthralled. He moved to the man who was hovering over the boy.

The man had his hands pressed over the boy's chest, trying in vain to staunch the bleeding. He looked up, sensing Raphael's presence, fear and anger and desperation in his gaze. "He… he just jumped in front o' me. He saved me." Anguish laced his voice.

Raphael focused and the man too stilled. He looked at the boy, whose glasses sat crookedly across his forehead. Barely a man.

The vampire moved closer. "I can save you," he whispered, his fangs already full in his mouth.

The boy's head was turned to the side, gaping at nothing, his heartbeat weakening by the second. This close, the scent of blood was nearly overwhelming, but there were also other smells that told a story beyond the mortality swiftly spilling from his veins. He had a cat. Three feminine scents were entwined with his. Oregano, marjoram, and thyme. The boy smelled of clove and frankincense, and of ink and paper and paint.

"Do you want to live?" Raphael asked, watching, waiting for any sign of a fight. The boy needed to want life if he were to risk breaking all of the rules.

For a painfully long second, he thought that nothing would happen. The boy's eyes were already empty.

And then he sputtered and jerked. It was a disgustingly pathetic flare of life, but it was enough.

Raphael bit down on his own wrist, gripped the boy's head and forced his blood down the human's throat. He bit at the boy's neck too, gulping down two delicious mouthfuls whilst simultaneously stroking the boy's throat to help him swallow, so that the vampiric blood could reach the boy's spluttering heart.

Detaching from the boy's throat and removing his wrist, Raphael sat back on his haunches and awaited the inevitable. It didn't take long for death to seize him.

Raphael could only hope that the magic of his cursed blood had seized the boy first.


	3. Chapter 3: Wake

**I'm not very sassy, but I hope Simon isn't too OOC.**

**Thank you for reading. I would appreciate a review very, very much, but I'm going to continue regardless since I am enjoying this quite a bit and I'm procrastinating, but, as you likely know, approval is the life-blood of a fanfiction writer. Or maybe that's just an INFJ thing and I just constantly seek acceptance and validation. Well... then. 'Kay!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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WAKE

When Simon became aware of himself, he was clutching an empty blood bag with dirt-encrusted fingernails. Immediately he tried to take a breath, but he had to force the air down and force his lungs to expand. He didn't get oxygen, didn't need it, it seemed. But he got so much else.

Simon could hear traffic and heartbeats; electricity racing and water gushing. He could taste the wet dirt and the dry thunder in the air. He could smell the grass and metal and something that inflamed his hunger once more. His muscles cramped and he groaned as pain lanced through him.

"Here," a voice came from behind him.

Whirling around, Simon faced the stranger and hissed at him. The light of nearby streetlamps stabbed at his eyes and he cringed from it. What was happening?

_What's wrong with me_?

Noises and scents bombarded him, and his anxiety spiked.

"Here," the stranger said again, holding out another bag.

Simon recoiled from it. He could hear the sloshing of viscous liquid. He knew it was blood even though he wanted, hoped, it was anything but.

The stranger made shushing sounds as if trying to comfort a small child or calm down a disgruntled kitten. He had dark hair and dark eyes, and Simon felt oddly reassured by him. He studied the boy a moment longer, taking in his presence with all of his newly sharpened sense. But too quickly, his attention is pulled back to the blood.

"You're still hungry." The stranger radiated calm and control. "Drink this, and I'll explain everything."

More pain pounded against Simon. He felt so thirsty; his throat burned. Even his brain felt dry and wilted. Before he fully realised it, he had darted forward, grabbed the bag, and moved back again. He marvelled at his speed, at his strength. Every fibre of his being vibrated with power. And the old Simon would have focused on that. The new Simon though, he only wanted what was in the bag.

Something was happening in his mouth and he poked his tongue at his teeth. Fangs. Sharp. He tasted his own blood, but it didn't interest him nearly as much as the blood staining his shirt, his hands and the blood singing to him from within the bag he clutched.

He tried to remember when this could have happened, and his death came flooding back to him. Between the physical pain and the emotional anguish, he was literally drowning.

And yet, the blood was more important. So, he bit through the plastic and listened to the man as he introduced himself, as Raphael explained who he was and what had happened – what Simon had become.

A vampire.

Simon scoffed, rolling his eyes at Raphael, and felt like himself for a brief but glorious second. _Well_, _duh_. He wasn't stupid. He had read more than enough comic books throughout his short life to put two and two together. The fangs had been a pretty big giveaway.

He drained the bag dry. It took another bag before he felt sated and with his hunger out of the way, disgust began to fester in his stomach.

How was he going to tell his mom? What was Clary going to say?

"Wait, what?" Simon's attention snagged on something Raphael had said.

"You have to die in your old life and come with me."

Simon's brain hitched. "Uh, no. I don't think so." There was nothing to argue about, nothing to debate. He was not putting his mom and sister through that. He was not going to abandon them. He was not going to go to some damp dungeon or something and live with a bunch of vampires.

Just because he'd been turned into this… _thing,_ didn't mean that he was completely _evil._ Right? And that's what it would take to leave his family – someone would literally have to rip out his heart.

"I am your Maker," Raphael said as if that answered everything.

Although the air pressed against him and he felt mildly compelled to obey, Simon shook his head and refused, backing away from the other _vampire_. "No," he said vehemently. "I'm not faking my death."

Simon Lewis, the vampire, ran home.


	4. Chapter 4: Home

**Thank you for all of the support! I really appreciate it - special shoutout to BeckTheProgram for being my first follower. I have the next chapter ready, but I'm still editing. I'm not sure if I should post it since it's a bit angsty and well, morbid. Do we want morbid?**

**Anyway, read on, beautiful people.**

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HOME

Simon found his mom curled up in her favourite chair, phone pressed to her ear. Her eyes were red, her hair dishevelled, and her nails worn to the quick.

_Shit,_ he thought. How long had he been gone?

He entered quietly, hearing as she asked if there had been any unidentified teenagers brought to the hospital or, and her breath hitched, to the morgue.

_You're lower than dirt, Simon Lewis_, he admonished, and stepped forward, purposefully stepping on one of the house's many creaky planks to announce his presence.

If Raphael could see the look of utter relief on his mother's face, he would understand why Simon couldn't just leave. She spluttered for a bit, before relenting and enveloping him in a hug. Simon didn't want to let go. His mom felt like home. She smelled of vanilla and coffee and… blood. He pulled away, sick to his stomach. He was a monster, wasn't he?

After a tirade of questions and admonishes, Simon was allowed to speak. He made up a dumb story about bullies, being knocked out, and waking up somewhere far away. He knew that his mom didn't believe him, but she just nodded when he was done. He could almost see her warring with herself, torn between anger and relief. Relief won, and she hugged him again.

"I'm not hungry," he told her when she tried to heat up some spaghetti. The smell of tomatoes and cumin made him nauseous.

But he did boil water for tea, and with a steaming cup of peppermint cupped between her hands, he finally saw her muscles unclench. He sat next to her until she fell asleep, before going to his room and getting his laptop. He messaged Clary and his band, telling them that he was alive. He also messaged his sister, who was too grateful to hear from him to scold him for not bringing back chocolate the night before.

He went back to his mom, covered her with a tattered blanket, before settling close to her, drinking in her warmth. Simon didn't dare breathe for fear of catching a whiff of her blood and he was overly aware of the sound of her heartbeat and the lack of his own.

It was agonising.

It was torture.

But he was there and she wasn't alone. He was home.


	5. Chapter 5: Torture

**The next chapter is already planned, but not written. It's a bit daunting since I'm bringing in Clary, and I always struggle with dialogue. **

**Anyway, reviews are appreciated. Just one teeny-tiny review?**

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TORTURE

The next day, Simon begged off school. His mom, still riding high from the scare and his return, allowed it. He told her he didn't feel well, and his ghost-like pallor had her convinced that he might be coming down with a bug or something.

Yeah, the greatest bug of all: _death._

Clary took a bit more convincing, but eventually, she relented. Sort of. She wanted to come to his house after school still, but he made her promise that she wouldn't. Because he didn't want her to get sick too, of course.

The rest of the day, he slept like the dead, and once dusk started darkening the sky, he started his experimenting Simon knew the basics about vampires but tested himself against the myths. His diet seemed pretty self-explanatory, but he owed it to himself and the world to try. The rumours of a strictly blood-based diet proved true when he spent a solid half-hour vomiting up the three bites of toast he managed to force down.

He felt equally as repulsed by a piece of chicken as a bulb of garlic, so that myth was false, and he had a reflection. Sunlight proved no friend and burned. The patch of burnt skin of the finger he'd poked at a beam of sunlight still throbbed. Hurt like hell. And that was an accurate description of the next couple of days.

Hunger was his constant companion. He had been an idiot. It simply hadn't occurred to him. It hadn't _registered_ that he would need to continue consuming blood after his transition into his new life.

On day two, he tried to pray. Prayer turned out to be the final nail in the coffin and the stake that drove it home. Despite an exponential improvement in the quality of his vampire puns, he couldn't say G- G- ah! He couldn't say the G-word. He shouldn't have been surprised. He truly was evil. He was a monster.

Hunger gnawed at him. He could hardly think and whenever his mom or sister was in the room, it took everything within him, everything that was still _human_, to not _want_. He stayed in his room, pretending to cough, and flushed bowl after bowl of chicken soup and oatmeal down the toilet.

Clary texted and called. He told her he was sick and banned everyone from his room. He swore he wouldn't let her in, but still, Clary came to his house and he asked his mom to send her away

Three days without blood and he started hallucinating. He saw shapes and lights. He felt hot and cold, and his skin crawled with imaginary insects, that scratched and bit. He startled at every little noise and his head thrummed with pain.

Clary came by that morning and that afternoon, before and after school. He loved her so, so much, but he didn't dare allow himself to see her. Simon knew that if he saw her, he would break, and tell her everything. He ignored her texts and calls, and he hid the spare key from her so that she could not get in the house whilst his mom wasn't there to send her away.

On the fourth evening of being a vampire, he woke after a fitful day of dozing. Not sleep, since that would imply rest, and for a dead thing, he was surprisingly exhausted.

As if still dreaming, he stood up and staggered to the door, dizzy with hunger. His muscles seized and his stomach cramped. Maybe he could just slosh a bit of water around in his desert-like, dry mouth?

In the kitchen, his mom hummed one of her favourite hymns as she chopped vegetables. Probably for another batch of soup.

A hiss and a mild curse sounded. The world went high-pitched and black.

Or red.

All he could smell was the delicious scent of blood. All he could hear was the glorious sound of blood pumping through veins. He could taste it in the air, feel the vitality and warmth vibrating so close.

Simon made no sound as he neared. He stalked, a silent predator. _Look at me,_ he thought, and his prey turned around, already mesmerised, already his. It looked in his eyes and he smiled. _Caught_.

"Simon? Mom?" His sister's voice echoed through the house and he heard the jingle of her keys in the door.

Simon blinked. And realised that he was hovering over his mom, fangs scraping at her neck. He backed off, horror twisting his face, fist pressed against his mouth. _What was he doing?_

"Kitchen!" he called out hoarsely around fangs that didn't want to retract. He turned his back on his mom and she seemed to snap out of her reverie.

"Simon?" She sounded dazed and confused. "Ow, whoops. Caught myself with the knife again. Could you hand me a paper towel, baby?" When he didn't, she asked, "Are you feeling better?"

It was rude and disrespectful, but his control was frayed, delicate, and about to snap. So, he ran out of the kitchen and into the bathroom, slamming the door. He pretended to retch. It wasn't difficult. He just thought of what he had been about to do to his own mother.

Frantic knocks at the bathroom door ate at his conscience and though it destroyed the last bit of his strength, he 'mind-melded' with his sister, sending her off to a sleepover at a friend's house, and his mother, whom he sent to a nearby hotel.

With his sister and mother gone, the house was quiet. Not silent since there was the settling of wood and the scrabbling of mice in the attic, but quiet. Simon considered going out to search for Raphael and get more bagged blood - he was that desperate - but he collapsed on the sofa before he could reach the door.

All he truly wanted was for his mom to hold him, to stroke his hair, and tell him that it would be alright. All he wanted was to lean his back against Clary's and have her tell him that everything was going to be okay.

They would tell him lies and he would be alive.


End file.
